poems, subpoems, & mirrors



Mists Hovering the Underbelly


south jupiter

The earth at one point
was a cloud of gases, gradually
gathering through magnetism
into a generous geode
shimmering into ever new
layers of complexity
and beauty. Attraction

grates on the elements,
forming creatures
and creations into images
of the swirling community
of matter endowed with sparks of life.
It shines brightly,
a strobe of energy,

and dims on the wave
of the pulse, Darkness
giving cover of night for slumbering,
Light in which to do beautiful work.
Lately it seems the slumber
has stirred Sirens streaming
constant messaging,

soliloquy and choral screaming,
and the gases, the vapors
of our thought and reason
are storming like the cyclones
of Jupiter’s underbelly,
the electricity of the plugged-in Blues,
the contemplative call

from its acoustic porch and field
antecedents, the prophetic
wailers of ages unto ages
proclaiming the plainly seen,
explicable were it not shrouded
in dense Falsities proclaimed
by ingratiating prophets of Promises

designed to deny the Oath takers
their bogus, targeted Reward
which was said to be Security
that becomes a sense of the tenuous.
You can submit yourself to any
properties of the gas,
the way it floats in air, inert,

observant, pliable, and steady.
Or its flammable propensity,
aggressive, fluid, expressive, on an edge.
Or it’s cluttered atmosphere,
traversed by bird by plane and satellite,
by ashes of Industry and War,
by prayers of conscious Life,

by waves harnessed with sound and code
and others yet hidden.
Breathe in that which is already within,
and find it there in your lung,
in your gut, in your peering eye,
your fingers and skin for touch
and walk from there.


Idea Market

IDEA MARKETfacebook out there.jpg

Ideas are for sale,
and why shouldn’t

they be another

They provide
the most assured
protection from

the forces of Reality,
whatever at the time

we believe
that may be.

But does it
repeat forever?

Repeat into
the ecstatic
access of data?

Inspirations: Trump Knows You Better Than You Know Yourself; “Thought Leadership” #ThoughtLeader

A Prayer to Glorious Leader Trump


golden chaos.JPG

O Great Glorious Leader!
Son of the Spirit Chrysus*,
Heir of King Midas,
Czar of Titled Towers,
El Duque of El Dorado,
Führer of Fantasy,

may We rest and be remade
in the Crucible of Your Debts
so that Our Ceilings and Skies
will shine as plated gold.

Smelt and fabricate Our Lives
as figurines becoming
of your magnificence.

Guide Us in Our Devotion
and Glutting, Our Famished Feasts,
and fortify Our Resolve to face
the horrors You’ve beset upon Us.

We pour out Our Oblation of Rage,
Confusion, and Fear with blind devotion.
O Gracious Giver of Golden Greatness,
The Really Greatest Best Donald John Trump,
We thank You for taking everything.

A Prayer to Our Outgoing Liberal Leader

A PRAYER TO OUR OUTGOING LIBERAL LEADER529887_521551457867684_1372327034_n

Dear Smooth Certainty,
sweet release for Liberal liability,
we give You thanks
for assuaging our complicity,
helping us through this dark time
when we might have had to face
our active acquiescence
to the Dominion of Death.

You have blessed us with Feelings
of Bliss and Justice,
thinking equality is not only achievable
but it is now a Hope fulfilled.

You have swept us up
by Extraordinary Rendition
of our fragile Convictions.

We will miss the ambiguity
granted You by
oppositional obstruction
that has graced us
with the comforting
option of Righteous Indignation
easily proclaimed with concise verbosity.

We bless Your Name,
Barack Hussein Obama,
President of Proclaimed Progress,
Diadem of Deep Interests,
Grounding Guide of the Grafted Gullible,
Liberal Lord of Light.

Make a way for us now
to continue to walk in Your Way
through the turbulence
of truncated Truth.


Inspirations: Obama administration eases policy on preventing civilian casualties in Iraq, SyriaTrump’s Neo-Fascism will be built on Neo-Fascism of Obama and Democratic Party by Ajamu Baraka; America dropped 26,171 bombs in 2016. What a bloody end to Obama’s reignObama’s Big Sellout: The President has Packed His Economic Team with Wall Street Insiders by Matt Taibbi


Labyrinth of Blinding Light


Americans love mirrors
so long as what appears
to be looking back at us
is something we can cheer.
Exceptional without exception,
we have the best ways,

the most freedoms,
the fairest elections
sponsored by efficient corporations.
For our next phase
in overcoming the world’s malaise,
proving ourselves above the fray,

our smartest, industrious
global citizens have outsourced
some previously unthinkable,
but now welcome opinions.
Considering our history
of exporting and imposing

the most favorable conditions
upon backwards, uncivilized
substandard states and institutions,
it is only sensible that evaluations
are to be constructed and reviewed
by the peers of our powerful,

crafty, virtuous, patriotic leaders.
We can rest assured
in the knowledge
of our unblemished role
in providing necessary
protections for the world’s

sense of maverick order,
rules, and obvious laws.
With our labyrinths of mirrors
reflecting back flattering scenes
of heroism, romance, and geniuses,
we’ll remain big, strong, and tall,

capable of building the greatest walls
to ensure that from our city on a hill,
our precipice of skyscrapers
shining their beacon light,
and the grace of our mighty Lord

we shall never fall.


Inspirations: Democrats, Trump, and the Ongoing, Dangerous Refusal to Learn the Lesson of Brexit by Glenn Greenwald. Independence Day: Resurgence and other works of military propaganda that includes plenty of cheering scenes.




Communication is the reaching, interactive address of subjectivity and is relative to a time, all the way down.

We get perhaps more artistic, more primal in our representations when we are obsessed with death, with mortality, with reckoning

with the fact that nature is neutral and cruel, yet we feel the call to fight against it, rage against ending,

and so we build machines and consume earthen offerings and potions and concoctions of the manipulated earth to ward off death and meaninglessness,

and yet still the end comes, despite our hospitals and our shelters and our sanitation systems,

our methods of commerce and insurance. In fact, some of these protections are being systematically shut down for the express purpose

of ensuring some die and some get to fool themselves into thinking they’ll go on surviving by means of building more and

more of the machine that now not only fails, not only is being destroyed by its makers, but will be swallowed back up by the very material

from which it was constructed in the form of storms and violence and heat and freeze and breaking glaciers and bombs

and rising seas and burning forests and shifts in land masses and the territorial pissing art we’ve appointed to the transition team.

In the end none of us could stop this. Our consciousness seeks to protect itself; it just has not yet tapped in acutely enough

to the terrestrial, material consciousness in a way to recognize that it has limits in that when it extends itself in an unbalanced way

it then shapes its environment in such a way that it changes the conditions in which it arose. The tragedy, of course, is that

there have been conscious creatures, prophets who have cried to cry out for balance, it’s just that their cries were too often misheard. Their words

have been misunderstood, silenced, censured, abstracted, institutionalized, immaterially gnostitized,

flipped to be interpreted in a way to completely subvert and misuse them for vile gain, unending growth at the expense of anything or anyone else.

This is worse when it is known deeply that one is doing it. Many, however, are scared or less minded, out of sync with

the material and its laws and limits, on a gradient of awareness. The action that follows from varied layers of conscious drives

is only an imprecise measure of culpability at this point, for even those who’ve known, who said something, have not been able

to stave off devastation, and some leaning toward that better way will gravitate towards more foul forms of justice in the search of balance,

but balance at this point, given the physical circumstance, is not likely to scale out to look anything like what we’ve come to

recognize as life. It will be alien. We must learn to absorb this new reality, to blend-in in a way that favors wisdom, peace. But we must also be willing to face

the harsher possibilities and yet still advocate for life even if it means our death. What comes after that for us may be nothing

or it may be everything. Perhaps this beautiful yearning and work for good, even ending in disaster, continues, but even if does not it feels more pure than other

options of cancerous greed and stormtrooping and conniving and living in luxury in the face of suffering, leeching off that

suffering by inciting jealousy and false dreams of perverted gain, celebrity. It will still be better than the depravity of murder and rape

and hypocrisy of speech and deed, and war, and profiteering off wrecking other life forms and the very life giving balance

of the earth. Perhaps consciousness will arise again on this planet before the solar meltdown coming in four to six billion years

vaporizes it all into an even newer layer of being in the universe. It may discover this conscious time’s hieroglyphics,

emotions etched into the earth. By that time will it have learned from our mistakes and maintain a balance more in tune than we have engineered?

Will it simply be a new tragic ballet of Wisdom in search of a company of graceful dancers with too few dancers able to learn

the routine, the flowering of the daily chorus and symphony on the face of the earth, yeast and pollen drifting in the air stirring up

the effervescence of shared and communicated and perceived conscious life, or will that dance be an unqualifying exchange and

letting go?


Inspirations: The Rapid Evolution of EmojisAn Insurrectionist Manifesto by Ward Blanton, Clayton Crockett, Jeffrey W. Robbins, and Noëlle Vahanian. Panpsychism via Peter Sjöstedt-H


EMPTINESSdry lake.jpgEmpty, evaporated, greatness
is emptiness. It is barren land,
dry lakes, dusty wells and mines
ravaged for the building

of night stealing cities,
towers worshipping power,
stretching fingers to self-same gods.

How can your satiate emptiness?

How many crops, manufactured
consumer items can you plant
in its poison soil, or offer
to its warring, spoiled void?
Might fullness be lack,

grasping at nothing and beholding
the abyss of possibility,
and from there loving?
Love opens the wounded womb,

the watery chaos,
the measured, humble acceptance

that yet refuses the esteem
fueled by purposes glib,
that glint with sophistry,
but are ruled by fiat
and thickly, proudly
in denial of what is beset.

Would you, whales and turtles,
beasts beautifully aware
of your submersion in the water,
air, and, for you, dear turtle,
the land, teach us separated

from our wombed emergence,
from our growing division
within the amniotic sea
how we might touch well,

how we can breathe in nothing
and all in all?

Would you, lover, share me
with the world, as I would
welcome you to share yourself,
and in that loose vesting hold
with the lightest and gravest

entwining? Together in binding
and in letting go we seek
to be walked by the ground,
breathed by the wind, and swam
by the deep.
Inspirations: Isaiah 35, Ecclesiastes, and Catherine Keller’s The Face of the Deep

In the Days of the 2016 Southeast Wildfires

IN THE DAYS OF THE 2016 SOUTHEAST WILDFIRESwildfire-haze-nov-2016IN THE DAYS Rejoice, you lumbersexuals!
The hills are making their holocaust
to the god of consumer goods,
putting your manly-scented candles

to shame. Breathe in the taste
of wooded particulate,
wash in the waters, evaporate.
No, no, it’s not your fault,

but the wild playground
as a living, breathing, crawling entity
has been forgot as such.
I’m not saying I remember,

raised in a suburb.
We tract home and city dwellers,
with our suits and words,
our algorithms and television,

our schools of excellence,
wouldn’t survive a day in the woods,
couldn’t shave our beards with an ax
or skin a rabbit, find edible roots.

I’d die of poison mushrooms out there
as a result of my comfortable,
air conditioned indoor upbringing
drying out the forests

with electricity generation.
I’m reaching out here
to friends I don’t yet know.
Shall we join in touching the earth

by canceling our raids
on her trusts, her blood and bones,
loamy and dusty skin?
Meanwhile the albedo refuses

to regenerate under the cover
of Polar Night unlike any melt
seen since before the Pleistocene.
Come next summer

heat will seep deeper,
glaciers pour out cold oblations
to their suffocating sister seas.
Everyday forward, brothers,

we’ll need to sharpen our blades
to set to cut away at the habits
and habitats that bind
be we in flannel or robes.


Inspirations: How big droughts, forest fires could be the new normal in Appalachia by NSIKAN AKPAN, PBS News Hour



In some way are the surprising things unfolding
with Trump, especially internationally,
simply the same as they’ve ever been
except now Russia might be a friend? And is it
perhaps the case that politicians and pundits
are upset about such an alliance

because they don’t know how to accept
this new reality since for practically
70 years they’ve lived in a world
in which Russia is always meant to be the enemy
lurking, the easy entity of distinction and distraction?

The war won’t be quite so total
as early as they’d like, not beginning
on their favorite front. They are caught off guard
because it doesn’t quite line up
with the emerging Asia pivot, which was intended
to appease China a little longer, despite the obvious signs

that the American military and its allies
have been building up a presence surrounding
the People’s Republic. But now
they have a potential ally in Russia.
After that sets in, after they accept

the new Trumpian Fascism by way of acquiescing
to his and his advisors capricious orders
so far as they remain alive and television standard
comfortable, they will recognize that really this is
just the next logical phase of the American project.

Many are likely to be tickled by Joe McCarthy’s ghost.

The country after WWII was proto-fascist even then
with its militarism and anti-communism,
anti-poor, anti-black,

There’ve been slight moments of resistance
that’ve always managed to be co-opted, presented
as proof that really the United States is a diverse,
welcoming, and benevolent force for good
in the world, when in reality it is the scourge

of the earth, the bloody evil empire.
The narrative of American virtue is going up in flames
and the id is being revealed. Still, some are surprised.
Many horrified. Others have seen it all along
and never allowed their protest to be neutered.

But in the end dissent was always drowned out
just enough to suppress it, to dampen its cry,
to bully its hope into a numbed anxiety
of creative endeavors. The state taunts
the non-violent and the oppressed

and the seeing, often to the point of actual murder.
It has done this nearly over the entirety of the globe
for the sake of entrenched businessmen, kleptocrats
dressing and written up and published
and broadcast in and under the guise of innovators,

philanthropists, hard workers, benevolent overlords,
job creators, movers and shakers. And now
one of their own who like them is only out for himself,
perhaps to an extent just that much more
than the others in their small cabal,

speaking in terms just that much dumber
and embarrassingly banal, is at the symbolic helm
with a few new friends long consigned
to an arm’s length optic relationship. So the composed
elite are flipping their shit for a bit,

but they’ll find a way to keep building the maelstrom.
Others must continue to fight against the squall
of the war machine and its many fronts.
Primarily this will be through the work
of solidarity with those most directly targeted

by the empire of death. We must seek to be shelters,
proclaimers of peace and love and justice.
And we must be honest about how foolish
it must appear, to stand up against the invisible,
fiery, iron fist of state sanctioned hate and oppression,

but opposition is best done in the opposite way
to the modes of the oppressor. Yet, others of us,
like this comfortable white guy musing
must humble ourselves and recognize that not all
will react like that and can yet be friends,

allies, partners. In the end I don’t know what’s coming.
I’ve worked hard to see what is in front of me,
and where we’ve come from. My vision is imperfect.
May I simply be an instrument of peace
in whatever capacity I’m needed. For you. For strangers.

For enemies that could be friends. My sway is little.
Your influence is small. How shall we join in truth,
find ways to emulate harmony, radiate balance?
How shall we be vigilant and plastic,
sturdy and a cushion, just and forgiving, connected

and unfastened, passionate and discerning, life giving
and sacrificial? How can we know unless we ask?
How can we hear the answer unless we quiet ourselves?
How can we speak peace unless we have listened
to its deafening silence

that calls violent acquisition to account?
How can we demand others to let go
unless we too have let go? These are nervous words
reaching, for even with as much thinking
as I’ve done, as much sitting with the sick and dying,

our time now feels different, even after I’ve recognized
in many ways it’s the same as it’s ever been. The veil
has been lifted anew and we behold what is behind
the curtain and the flags of which its folds are sewn.
There’s no more room for denial,

only invitation out of the noxious smog,
a muted listening to the siren song.


Among the inspirations: Oliver Stone’s Untold History of the United States

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